


Borderline

by deltachye



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: F/M, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Romance, Song Lyrics, Unhealthy Relationships, idk how to say this, if it wasnt jake gyllenhaal nobody would be here stanning mysterio and YET, not about a good happy uwu~ relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-06-28 14:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19814575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [reader x quentin beck]Will I be so in love?Gettin' closer, close enoughShout out to what is doneR.I.P., here comes the sun





	1. How was I to know?

**Author's Note:**

> as dumped in the tags this is NOT a depiction of a healthy, good relationship. please don't be like those weirdos who are like "zomg daddy i want this for myself" because then you need some HELP and i can't give u that. there might be some triggering writing, including a relationship with elements of abuse, such as feelings of being unsafe around your partner. reader discretion is advised.  
> but this is fanfiction.. therefore we can be like, in the FICTIONAL realm,,, omg you are so hot my crazy unstable murderous man 😍🤤😙😏😫😩 zoinks! call me honey and scream belligerently at me any day wow  
> premise: anybody else have their eyes zoom into that wedding ring??? and i've also been listening to tame impala on repeat for weeks so. result: thotty mysterio content bcs (let's be real he's only good for being a wh0re LOL). hope you stick around.
> 
> song: www.youtube.com/watch?v=vpbblMR_jUo

**[b o r d e r l i n e](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vpbblMR_jUo) \- tame impala**

* * *

_How was I to notice?_

It doesn’t matter what crowd it is. It could be a small conference or a national summit. The whole world could be watching him. But Quentin always finds you in the audience. You don’t know how he does it, but you’ll see him scanning the faces, and in no time at all he sees you. When you lock eyes with him, he smiles at you.

Once, it’d made you feel loved; special. When Quentin grins at you, everybody else disappears. Back then, it used to feel so good. _That’s my boyfriend._ It was such a great surge of pride and maybe even a bit of smug satisfaction. His blue eyes seemed so bright when they were only on yours.

But now, the message is very clear when he grins at you. It’s no longer just him proudly showing off, even though that’s exactly what he’s doing. It brings a chill right down your spine like icicles growing in place of your nerves.

_“See, [Name]? You’re mine.”_

And yet, it’s not like you don’t go. You go. You follow him wherever he fucking goes. You don’t know where you _would_ go if you were to leave, even when you realized you should. But it’s kind of too late for that now.

He cheers the crowd and you hear the applause erupt, but you can’t bring yourself to raise your glass. Quentin’s always been vague about his plans whenever he talks to you, but you aren’t stupid. Far from it. You know full well what your talents are going towards. He hates Tony Stark, hero of the universe, for disregarding his work. And what about you, whose work isn’t going towards helping people anymore, but rather...

You feel his eyes on you, hard, but you don’t look up to meet them.

_Gone a little far this time for somethin'_

You catch him sliding off the silver wedding ring he wears nowadays when you walk into your shared room. He drops it into a tray with four others just like it—contingencies—and walks away, not having noticed you in the doorway. You can’t help the sharp pain in your jaw. You’ve been with him for the better half of a decade, but you suppose that time has just affirmed that Quentin isn’t the type that can settle down. Not even with you. But honestly, would you actually say “yes” if he ever dropped down to one knee? You hesitate just thinking about it, and that’s enough for you to understand the dynamics of this relationship. Yet you reach your hand up and rap on the door with your knuckles, bringing his attention anyways.

“[Name],” he sighs, his expression softening with visible relief. It still makes your heart melt in the middle of your chest. It’s not like he’s ever been anything but good to you. In fact, ever since he’s been setting his plan into motion, he’s become different. Less angry, less… less of the Quentin you only put up with because you’re supposed to when you’re in love. Now he’s the one you fell in love with so long ago. Ambitious. Smart. Bright. Warm. It makes you feel horrible for doubting him, it really does. But even though he’s like this to you, what about the people who lived in that village? It pulls on the back of your mind even when you try to live in the moment and just be happy. _He went too far. He’s not going to stop. Why do you get to be happy right now? What about them?_

Quentin walks up and pulls you tightly into a hug, his body uncomfortably hot against yours. It breaks you out of your thoughts. Your arms settle mindlessly so that your hands cling onto his shoulders with practiced intimacy. He’s always been so much taller than you, even in your high heels. You feel the muscles of his broad back under his sweater. Just having him hold you settles the churning in your stomach and gives you some peace.

“How about it? A successful phase one, eh?”

And the moment is ruined.

He leans back after squeezing you a last time, his grin so broad it practically stretches from ear to ear. He’s so unfairly handsome when he’s like this, but you know you’re not looking nearly as enthusiastic enough in return.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asks immediately, his smile faltering when he notices your expression. He uses these pet names easily and you, the hopeless romantic, still feel the same flutters you did when he first called you “baby”. _Lovely, darling, beautiful, honey_ … he gets away with so much because you can’t fucking _help_ yourself. His hand reaches forwards to cup your chin, but you flinch when the rough fingers touch you.

“It’s just—!” you stutter, even though you’ve been thinking about how you’d try to say this for so long. “I mean… that village, Quentin. Did you really have to destroy _everything_? Where are they going to go now that they’ve lost their homes…? A-and the collateral damage; I mean, what if a building falls on somebody? And you want to do this in Europe, hugely populated… there’s no way somebody won’t get hurt.”

You haven’t noticed that you begun pacing in circles until Quentin touches you on your shoulder, stopping you mid-stride. His other hand comes down on your wrist and gently tugs, forcing you to stop biting your nails, which you’re suddenly aware of. They sting rawly. His face is gentle as he looks down at you, but there’s a shadow of a grimace.

“[Name]. Sacrifices have to be made. Everybody knew this going in. But the ends justify the means. Think about it; this world has no _future_ right now. When we blipped back, it was just… chaos. We got used to superheroes saving us from aliens, and now there’s no superheros. No Avengers. The people need something—no, _somebody_ to believe in. If they don’t have belief, we’re all screwed.”

 _But to what end?_ you want to plead. When is he, the man you love, going to stop? What happens if real aliens storm the planet? Or if one person figures him out? What then? What now? But you don’t think you can say it. For one, it’d break his heart. For two…

You aren’t exactly sure what he’d do to you.

“Okay,” you mumble instead, shoving everything aside like you have ever since this had begun. “I guess…”

He had gotten so close to you while he spoke, his breath tickling the baby hairs on your neck. He moves his head and the tip of his nose brushes your cheek as he looks into your eyes. It’s the same haunting look he gives you when you’re sitting in a crowd full of people, and he only sees you.

Maybe you could’ve mustered the courage to ask him what he hopes to accomplish in the endgame. Challenge him. Maybe you could have even told him that you didn’t like what he was implying about the means that needed to be justified. But his hand’s sliding down your back to your ass and you suddenly can’t think straight—fuck, you can’t think at all when he kisses you, hot and heavy, pulling you into him so that he crushes you with himself. Everything becomes occupied with him— _Quentin Beck_. He’s your world. His tongue is sweet as it laps you up, and you can only regain some semblance of yourself when he bites so hard on your lip that tears spring to your eyes.

“I’m gonna be a superhero, babe,” he breathes, the words wet and intoxicating. “ _Your_ hero.”

“Mm,” is all you return, the moan ripped out of your throat. It’s kind of pathetic of you. But Quentin talks, and you listen. And when he doesn’t talk, you’re still _his_. Even though you feel horrible about it sometimes… sometimes it feels good to just belong to him. Sometimes, it feels so _good_ to be…

Bad.

_And I couldn’t get away._


	2. Caught between the tides of pain and rapture

_Askin' how I managed to end up in this place…_

For the first “Elemental”, Quentin had you stay at home with a few of the other crew mates. He only took a smaller away team with him to Mexico. He cited it to be “safety precautions”; nobody knew if it was going to go well, and there had to be a back-up group for PR and clean-up if it all went to shit. Secretively, as he softly kissed the sore bite marks on your shoulder, he told you that nothing would ever happen to you. You knew in your tear-stained pillows that he just doesn’t want you to see—because seeing is believing, and believing leads to doubts.

But he couldn’t keep you away from Venice. It wasn’t as if there was a force left on this planet that could stop you from going to one of the most charming cities around. All of the team had to go for this, anyways—the project was off its unbelievably huge feet and would need all hands on deck for phase two. The royalties collected from phase one meant cushy Italian luxury for all, so it wasn’t as if anybody was unhappy about getting towed along. 

Besides, you were already upset about getting left behind the first time. Even if it _was_ to smash a small Mexican village into the ground… you don’t know how to feel about Quentin distancing you. You’ve been by his side since the very start; since the times you only got to talking through your @starkindustries.com domain work emails.

_Then I saw the time (saw the time)  
Watched it speedin' by like a train (like a train)_

The project team is small; way smaller than it should be. Stark Industries only employs the best of the best—but surely, there’s got to be more smart cookies than this. This is fucking ridiculous. This is bullshit hours with limited overtime, though you resign yourself to it anyways, because whatever it is you’re working on is always mind-blowingly fucking cool. 

Despite the fact that there’s only a few engineers, coders, and other vital staff, you haven’t met the actual team leader yet. Only a couple people you interact with have, and they don’t have very much to say about it. He’s nice enough, handsome enough, though a bit weird sometimes—as all young geniuses are. It’s been about a full month in and you only know his name by word of mouth: Trenton Tech? Something weird and fuckboy like, you think. But it’s not like you ever have the time to wonder after him; if you did have any spare seconds of free time, you’d be asleep. But today seems like it’s your chance. It’s D-Day—demo day.

Honestly, nobody really thinks it’s going to work yet. These prototypes Mr. Tech designed are outlandish by far. It’s not entirely your field, but even you know that this shit is way beyond the times. Even _with_ Stark technology. AR has never been this big. Maybe sized down, you’d be more confident in this not being a total shit show. But on this scale, you’ll be impressed if no fire alarm goes off. Who does this guy think he is, the next Tony Stark—?

“Son of a bitch!”

The expletive scares you and you whirl around, having thought you were alone in the break room. A guy stands halfway through the doorway, grimacing as he holds a coffee mug away from him—you put two and two together.

“Yeah, coffee’s hot,” you comment dryly. “Be careful.”

“Oh,” he replies, looking up. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

Back then, you probably should’ve realized that there was no possible way to have _not_ seen you. That you’re standing in the middle of the empty room, and he’s standing there staring at you, with no coffee spilt at all—who burns themselves with a full mug and doesn’t splash a bit around? Had it been the beginning to a series of lies? If he lied about little things, does that mean he’d lie about big things, say… “I love you?” Maybe it was just a conversation starter and you’re thinking too much about it. But it still unsettles you, like a little tickle you can forget about, but is always just _present_.

“Anyways, excuse me. Gotta go. D-day.”

You move to get past him. He’s not in the usual overworked employee get-up of jeans and a stained T-shirt; he’s got on a nicely form-fitted black turtleneck with a blazer and dress pants. A delicate gold necklace sits on his chest, complimenting the cool blue of his eyes. It’s very Steve Jobs-y. But you're no longer fazed by the sight of strangers with odd vibes—they’re all you work with. But Coffee Guy stares at you a bit too long, making you have to bring up the awkward, “…do I know you?”

“Are you on my team?” he asks, sounding distracted.

“Uh... who are you?”

“Quentin Beck.”

“Oh. Oh? Oh!” It clicks and hastily, you start adjusting the flyaways of your messy hair. “Yeah, I am then. I’m the—”

“Yeah, I know who you are. Ms. [Surname].”

Should that have creeped you out? Maybe. But he’s just your boss, your colleague… right? So it’s fine that he knows who you are and what you look like, even though you had no idea who he is. It’s actually kind of nice, because it makes you feel… a little bit special? 

“I guess we’re going to the same place!” you chirp nervously, still in appalled horror that you look like shit in front of your boss, and you’ve also been calling him Trenton Tech for a whole fucking month. He smiles a bit, and your heart jitters more than it already is.

“Well, gosh. I sure hope so, Ms. [Surname].”

“You can just call me [Name]. Mr. Beck.” It feels weird having him speak formally to you, especially in that cocky ass tone that you can’t help but be interested in. He blinks and his face brightens.

“Quentin.”

“Um… sorry, should we shake hands?” You know you’re being painfully awkward, but the other guys you actually know as your colleagues are old married men. Quentin looks to actually be close to your age for once, and you know it’s wrong to say this—but he looks fine as fuck and you’re _deprived_. 

He grins when you say it, even though you’re mentally cringing. With an outstretched hand, he tilts his head, perfectly styled blond hair shifting in the light. You take it, and it’s almost unbearably warm. It’s a strong grip that makes you blank out. Immediately, you miss the touch of it when he pulls away.

But it’s not as if he’s ever gone for long. Soon enough, it’d be impossible for you to mistake his name again; it’s all you say, all the way until your voice is hoarse and you can say nothing else. Not even “I love you”.

_Dangerously far and all forgiven_

You could just let it go and pretend everything’s okay and that he’s right. Quentin is doing the right thing by becoming the world’s next Tony Stark. People want and need something to believe in. Everything’s fine and will be fine.

But you can’t. 

The next Elemental attack is water, which is going to be exponentially worse than the last one, considering Venice has no shortage of delicate waterways to destroy. He tells you to stay with the rest of the behind the scenes crew in one of the safe buildings. They have no qualms about it—who’s insane enough to go out there while the drones are letting all Hell loose? 

You.

You just have to know. You have to see; believe. Of course you’ve already watched the simulations, but those don’t have scared, fleeing Italians and tourists in them. It’s much worse than you could have ever imagined. Simulations don’t have the sourly acrid smell of ash and stone in the air, choking out your lungs. They don’t have cold mist clinging to your legs and clothes as water erupts from the ground. They don’t have the panicked screams and cries. A mother holding a baby barrels past you as they run from the Elemental illusion. They’re running from Quentin. Should you?

You move closer to the centre. You know exactly how it’s going to move and where; as long as you just avoid the areas it’s programmed to be in, you’ll be fine. Besides, you need to get people out of the way before the drones get there. At this rate, it feels like you’re their only hope. Your Italian is limited, but the look on your face is universal and people listen to you as you push and shove them around. It’s all going well until you look up and realize that you have _fucked_ yourself. It seems you’ve been moving slower than you thought you were, because this tower looks scarily familiar.

_And then for marker… let’s say 12, we’ll loop to this block—bust the bell tower base so it crumbles, maybe topples…_

It’s toppling. Fast.

There wouldn’t be enough time in the world for you to get out of the way. You already feel pebbles in your hair. You’re going to die as a product of your own engineering. You close your eyes— _Quentin, I_ —

Then it feels like you’ve been hit by a car. But you still _feel_ , even if it’s hurting so much you wish you were dead. It means that you’re still alive. It hurts to be blown into the sharp piles of rubble, but it’s infinitely better than eating tonnes of brick. Your chest feels bruised. For a moment you can’t even see. You’re absolutely winded and take a minute to lie in the dust, struggling to breathe. When you finally manage the strength to look around, you see nothing but clouds of dust. But when you reach out blindly, your hand impacts the metal of a drone.

_There's gonna be a fight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've seen jake gel-in-halls insta you know what look i'm talkin bout with the necklace and the turtleneck. that's a stud. quentin's a stud, even if he's... loco. thanks for reading !


	3. Will I be known and loved?

_Is there one that I trust?  
Little closer, close enough  
I'm a loser, loosen up_

You’ve never just wanted a “simple life”. 

You wouldn’t have dreamt of working at Stark Industries for your entire life if you just wanted to work a 9-5 and go to wine tastings on weekends. No sane human being decides to go through gruelling school for most of their prime-time years just to be content. No, you want to be _known_. You want to be the person who changes the world. Another Tony Stark. Another _hero_ , let’s say.

Maybe that’s why you were okay with screwing your hot boss, Quentin Beck, on the weekends. 

You don’t have time for a boyfriend. Relationships need to be taken care of and nurtured; you don’t even have the energy to take care of a plastic plant at this rate. He’s even worse off than you are, since he’s running the whole shebang. For a really long while, you’re okay just being a pair of legs. That’s all he is to you, anyways.

But when that really long while ends, you find that you’ve accidentally done it. You’ve gone and fucked and then fucked up—

Because you’ve fallen in love.

He’s charismatic, always eerily perfectly so. He never fails to say the right thing or the hard thing. Quentin’s funny, dorky, smart, ambitious, both mature and immature—he’s kind of the perfect guy. You’re not even accounting for how good looking he is, both in sweats and his suits and also nothing at all. It’s when you, [Name] [Surname], the insane workaholic, stops thinking about work and starts thinking about him that you _know_. And, just like he can read your mind, he suddenly asks you out on a real date. You say yes.

It actually wasn’t that different at first, evolving from being fuck buddies to being in a bonafide relationship. You move in with him soon after, mostly enticed by a rent rate in slashed by half. Adulthood is expensive, after all. But seeing each other more often makes you miss him more, somehow. It feels like all the time is never enough with him. Quentin draws you with an insane power; though he’s not the only one who can. He adores you. Returns tenfold. Ravishes you. He eats it up; he eats _you_ up. 

His (and your) AR tech finally becomes a success. With the cloaked drones, the illusion becomes highly mobile. You and he spend some quality time in Bali and then with Antarctican penguins, courtesy of the technology. The team gets a little drunk to celebrate and then a little something after just “drunk”. It’s a good time. Then somebody cheers at the back of the room: 

“To Mr. and Mrs. Beck!”

Huh. Why don’t you don’t feel the urge to run away?

But then it happens. 

He’s angry, the type of angry that makes your body boil hot and your hands tremble with the urge to do things you shouldn’t even think about. But Quentin is different because you have to worry if he’ll actually do them. You feel angry too, belittled—how could a man like that scoff at _years_ of hard work and name it _that_? A joke? Everything’s got to be a joke to Tony Stark, who’s got it all. You’ll never become him because you wouldn’t want to be like that. 

But you try to move on. Another project awaits. Your time hasn’t come yet. At least you still have Quentin, right?

No. He doesn’t share the same sentiment. You thought you’d managed to calm him down, “ _Quentin, babe, there’s better things waiting for us in the future_ ”—but apparently, he thinks that these “better things” need to happen now, and by force. What he wants, he gets. Always.

You watch as security drags him out of the building. He kicks and screams like he’s some sort of dangerous criminal. He looks like it, the way people tense as he passes. He accidentally meets your eyes—after all, he always finds you, no matter the crowd—and you have to look away. You hear him crying your name, echoed down the hall, as everybody now turns to stare at you. There’re tears running down your face. It’s a flag as big as they come, cherry red and blown up in your face. Yet you decide to stay. Why? Why didn’t you run away? Why didn’t you leave?

Maybe you just don’t like losing things, even when they’re meant to go. Complicated looks like your middle name.

_Starting to sober up  
Has it been long enough?_

“Why were you _there_?!”

You flinch as he practically bellows, pacing the far end of the room. He wanted to take you to the hospital, but hospitals ask questions. As much as you don’t agree with his dastardly deeds, you’re not willing to put him or the others at jeopardy of being found out this early on. Besides, they’re overloaded with people needing treatment right now because of you-know-who. You’re at least pretty sure you haven’t broken anything, so you lie helplessly in bed with shoddy hotel ice pressed to your chest. 

“Quen.” You don’t exactly have the ribs to spare for meaningful conversation and glower at him instead. He slows down, broad back stiff—finally, he turns around to face you. He heaves a sigh. Carefully, he walks up to the bedside and pulls up a chair to sit beside you. You watch his face as his eyes dart from side to side; he’s obviously got a lot to say, and it tires you just to think about what it is. 

“...you got hurt. That’s exactly why I told you to stay in the safe zone. [Name]... what were you thinking?”

He takes your hand with both of his and kisses it, not once taking his eyes off of you. The prickles of his beard and the warmth of his lips makes your heart ache just as badly as your bruises do. Your eyes move down to his hand, and you notice that he’s kept that ring on for the first time. 

“I had to see,” you wheeze, frustratingly quiet. Truthfully you want to get up and scream at him. _How_ can he keep doing these things, seeing what you’re going through, knowing what so many others are going through right now? “I…” 

Even wincing hurts. Everything hurts right now. Quentin squeezes your hand with concern.

“Take it slow, hon. I’m listening.”

“I…” You suck in a deep breath even though it nearly kills you. You look at him right in the eye. You’ve got to let it go now that you’ve seen past the illusion.

“I want it to be over.”

_Set it free, must be tough._


	4. Conversation, well I tried

_Once again, I am alone  
Will I be? Stay right here  
Any closer, bad idea_

You don’t know why, but you didn’t think he’d let you go so easy. But he does. Almost silently, he packs himself up and out of your life. He checks himself into another hotel room and just like that, he’s gone. Suddenly, you only hear about your previous life partner on the news. It’s almost like you never knew him at all.

It kind of hurts.

You thought that maybe he’d… fight a little harder to hold onto you. You thought that maybe your relationship meant more to him than whatever _this_ was supposed to be. He’d made it seem that way. He’d made you seem like his whole world. But Quentin Beck is a master of illusions, and he’s gone.

You have money, but not enough to start over. Beck’s place was his before you came along, so you don’t feel right going back to that. Maybe with the funds you have you could settle down in some middle-of-nowhere state and take up some regular job, but just the thought of that sickens you. We all like to say we change, but do people ever really _change_ , or do they just post up to the borderline and look to the other side?

So you’re just stranded in Europe, far from home. If you can even call it that anymore. 

Nobody’s to blame here. You did it to yourself, but you’re still utterly heartbroken. It’s embarrassing to admit, but that’s how you feel. Even when your body heals up enough to walk around again, you can’t find the desire to. Every day your hand twitches over your phone, thinking maybe you could just call him and apologize. But what do you have to be sorry for? You wanted him to stop, and he wants to keep going—bigger and better, always and forever. Maybe once it’d be okay to just take the simple route rather than the primrose path. After all, you just don’t agree with each other anymore.

But could that still be okay?

You did try. To give yourself credit, you tried to be a good person. You tried to move on, find a hot European to take you on cheap thrills; but you only think about how they aren’t Quentin. They have charm, but it’s not his charm. They’re all smiles and there’s nothing behind it. Quentin always has something behind the shadow. It’s alluring. Drawing. Addicting. 

You know the next one will be Prague. You don’t have to go. Now, nobody’s asking you to go anywhere or do anything. You could stay here in Venice, or go literally anywhere else but Prague—hell, you even have the choice to go to some town right next to Prague. But you go to Prague. You tell yourself it’s not for him, it’s for you. 

But he’s started to rub off on you, because you’re a damn liar.

_If there's room, room for doubt  
As within, as without ya_

You know he knows that you’re here. The second you decide you’re going to Prague, you expect him to expect you. He has to—Quentin knows everything. In fact, it only takes a couple of hours for somebody to show up on your private room’s patio. Impressive, even for him.

“You really take a drone with you everywhere you go?” you ask, opening the sliding door. You try very hard not to act like these very short days have felt like years, and it takes all you have to not look excited or relieved when Quentin walks in.

“You do remember I can’t actually fly, right?”

It’s the same tone of witty quip that made you fall for him in the first place. If it had no context, you could be like, _“oh yeah? With all that hot air in your head I thought you’d be in the stratosphere.”_ But there sure is context to this—dark, bloody context—so you keep your mouth shut.

“Why’re you here, [Name]?”

He asks it so heartbreakingly softly that you almost burst into tears for no reason. You look away and sit down onto the bed, crossing your legs so that you make yourself smaller. Now that you’re here, you still don’t know why you’re here. You had thought that seeing him would settle everything in its place and you’d know what you want and what you need. You don’t know why you wanted him to come so bad, now that you’re feeling that he shouldn’t look at you at all. Quentin follows you and kneels on the floor before you. He takes your hands and pulls them apart from the painful clenched double-fist you’d made, and kisses the nail marks on your palms. 

“I get it, darling. You want to be saved.”

Your breath sticks in your throat. It’s equal parts disgust and joy, because _shit_ , he’s _right_.

You want to be a hero. You want to be good. Save the world. But you also miss him—the way he grins, having to bite his lip to hide it; the way his eyes burn with desire when he looks at you so close. He’s insane. You know this. God, you know full well he’s the U-Word— _unstable_ —

Yet you still love him, so that means there’s something not entirely right with you either.

Your silence is enough for him. Quentin fishes in his pocket for something, and then pulls out one of the silver rings. Blearily, you stare at it in his fingers.

“One got burnt up… the other flew off somewhere. So I’ve only got two left.” 

They’re too big for your fingers, so he places it in the middle of your left palm and closes your fingers around it. It’s an open invitation, though it feels more like he’s given you a responsibility you didn’t ask for and can’t give back. It’s got a heavy weight to it. 

“It’s yours, [Name],” he says simply. “Come back to me.”

Not _will you marry me_? It’s no questions asked. It’s a statement. “It’s yours”—

 _you’re mine_.

__

_We’re on the borderline  
Gets me every time_

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: https://deltachye.tumblr.com/


End file.
